


I'm Like a Lawyer (What, Like it's Hard?)

by PadawanRyan



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy, Green Day, Jonas Brothers, My Chemical Romance, Panic! at the Disco, The Academy Is...
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Lawyers, Alternate Universe - Legally Blonde Fusion, Crack Treated Seriously, Harvard University, M/M, Movie: Legally Blonde (2001), Murder Mystery, Non-Consensual Touching, Past Character Death, Romantic Comedy, Soul Punk Era Patrick Stump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-15
Updated: 2020-07-15
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:27:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25274662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PadawanRyan/pseuds/PadawanRyan
Summary: The inevitable Legally Blonde AU where Patrick follows his ex-boyfriend Ryan to law school, meets a helpful lawyer named Pete, and ends up defending Frank Iero on trial for murder.
Relationships: Mike Carden/Kevin Jonas, Minor or Background Relationship(s), Past Frank Iero/Gerard Way, Past Patrick Stump/Ryan Ross, Patrick Stump/Pete Wentz, Ryan Ross/Brendon Urie
Comments: 8
Kudos: 55





	I'm Like a Lawyer (What, Like it's Hard?)

**Author's Note:**

> HOLY FUCK. This has to be the longest oneshot I have ever written, and the more surprising part about it is that I wrote it in _less than 24 hours_.
> 
> Let's begin somewhere: Legally Blonde is one of my favourite movies of all time. I own it on both VHS and DVD. When I was 13, I went through a _very brief_ phase where I wanted to be a lawyer because of Elle Woods. So, naturally, when I discovered last night that the movie had been added to Canadian Netflix, I immediately pressed "play." I was only about 26 seconds in - we hadn't even had the full "Legally" in the title onscreen yet - when it came to me: bandom Legally Blonde AU. I opened up a Word document and immediately began writing, and I had maybe about 30% of this fic done before I went to bed in the wee hours of the morning.
> 
> (by "wee hours" I definitely mean like...2am, not 6am, but still — I was writing for a while)
> 
> Anyway, I actually had to open a separate document and plan some of this, because in order to do it justice and not lose track of who was who, I needed to _at least_ write out a cast list. And a pairing list so I didn't forget. And hell, I even had a bit of a tag list going. Some of the details were obviously changed in order to fit my vision of the story - such as Patrick not being a rich Beverly Hills sorority girl (or frat boy, if we go with equivalents) - but there is quite a bit of dialogue or references taken directly from the film. I actually had a copy of the movie transcript open while I was writing so that I could double check both the dialogue and timeline.
> 
> I also want to add a disclaimer before anyone goes into this: I don't hate Mikey, Lyn-Z, Jamia, etc. If we're being fair, Mikey Way is the secondary love of my life, right after Patrick Stump. However, they were obviously thrown into roles where their characters do bad things, or at least _questionable_ things, because those roles had to be filled. Frankly, for the murder, I still wanted it to be a family thing, so it seemed inevitable that Mikey was going to kill Gerard and that Frank would be the accused spouse. People I _actually_ hate, such as Bob Bryar, do not feature in the story at all. Also, I know shit all about musical instruments besides the basics, so for Patrick's big trial scene, I looked up acoustic bass guitar models and just went with that.
> 
> And, considering some of the themes of the movie, this is a PG to PG-13 rated story, but obviously there are references to non-consensual touching and, well, _murder_ , so tread lightly. But also, it's pretty cracky.

Logically, he knew it was a monumentally stupid decision and that he’d probably regret it the moment he got to Harvard.

But he _really_ wanted Ryan back and how could he say no to true love?

So, Patrick found himself sitting in the library and studying book after book after book for the LSATs because there was no fucking way he could get into law school without opening a book. He was sure that there had to be _some_ people who got into Harvard law without studying – mommy and daddy’s money could sure go a long way if you had it, which he _didn’t_ – but Patrick had never studied law before. He had never even read the Terms of Service on a website before. Ergo, he had to actually figure out what the fuck _law_ entitled.

But look: he just thought the word “ergo.” He was totally capable of getting into Harvard law.

His mom had tried to lecture him about making important life decisions based on assholes who broke your heart, but his parents were divorced so what did she know? If she couldn’t keep her marriage together then clearly she hadn’t tried hard enough, and well, Patrick was going to do what she didn’t and _get his partner back_. Because Patrick and Ryan were endgame and nobody was going to stand in the way of _true love_.

Nobody and nothing. Not even Harvard Law School and the LSATs.

The breakup had come out of nowhere, so Patrick was certain that Ryan couldn’t actually have meant it. Otherwise wouldn’t he have given Patrick some sort of sign that it was over? Wouldn’t Patrick have seen it coming?

There was something in the whole declaration about _expectations_ and whatnot, and apparently Patrick did not meet the expectations of Ryan’s parents. Patrick was some nobody with naught but a degree in music from DePaul University to his name. Ryan’s parents were pushing him to go to law school because they wanted him to be successful. Patrick could understand that, all parents wanted their children to be successful, but that didn’t mean Ryan should _break up_ with Patrick. It wasn’t as though Patrick was doing _nothing_ with his degree, he was successful enough in a management position at a record store.

Karens all over the world commanded his attention. He was desired by middle-aged women everywhere.

Sure, maybe it wasn’t for _positive_ reasons, but that made him successful. Right?

So, why couldn’t Ryan see that?

Joe and Gabe were both helpful and annoying assholes about the whole situation. They knew exactly what to say to keep Patrick from falling into a dark hole of self-flagellation, but he didn’t like that they wouldn’t stop badmouthing Ryan. There was nothing wrong with Ryan, he just wasn’t thinking clearly when he chose to end the relationship. Ergo, Patrick had to follow him to Harvard and show him that Patrick was more than worth his time.

But Joe and Gabe thought it was stupid. Or, well, Joe simply reminded Patrick that it would be difficult to get into law school and that maybe he should instead focus on the store and making his own music. That was Patrick’s original dream: to make music.

 _Gabe_ thought it was stupid. He did not mince his words but that was what Patrick appreciated about him.

There had been some comment in Ryan’s whole declaration about marrying “an Adam, not an Elton.” Patrick wasn’t sure what the correlation was between Adam Lambert and Elton John besides the fact that they were both gay musicians, but the first thought that popped into his head was that Adam Lambert was brunette and Elton John was blonde. Did that mean that Ryan thought he was… _too blonde?_ Surely, he couldn’t have been calling Patrick a dumb blonde. Elton John was not a dumb blonde. Maybe it was weight.

Whatever Ryan meant by that didn’t matter. All that mattered was that Patrick got to Harvard, and he wouldn’t do that if he didn’t buckle down and _study_.

He’d worry about his weight after he passed his LSATs.

* * *

And pass, he did — with a 179.

“I still can’t believe you’re doing this,” Joe repeated for the gazillionth time as Patrick ran on the exercise bike beside him.

Patrick was sweaty and already exhausted without the lecture. “So you’ve said.”

“There’s nothing wrong with the way you look! If any guy makes think you need to change your body in order to be with them, then fuck him.”

“That’s the plan,” Patrick responded. “Fuck him. After he asks me out again, of course.”

Patrick had been working hard all summer to get into shape because, well, if Ryan Ross thought that Patrick was _too Elton_ for him, then Patrick would be a little less Elton. He’s show up on his first day of law school with a lithe figure and platinum blonde locks – because Ryan couldn’t _possibly_ have meant that Patrick was too blonde, so surely, he would welcome _blonder_ – and the other man would be so _impossibly_ in love with Patrick that he would immediately fall to his knees and beg Patrick for his momentary lapse in judgement.

Okay, it probably wasn’t going to go _quite_ like that, but Patrick knew what he was doing.

Joe did not share his optimism. “Look, you might have to face the fact that Ryan was serious about the whole breakup,” he attempted to reason. “You might get there and he might not take you back. What are you going to do then?”

“You underestimate me Joe,” was all he could say. Because it was going to work, he _knew_ it.

* * *

Okay, when Patrick had imagined his first day of law school, he never quite imagined it would be this traumatizing. Like, what the actual fuck?

He was so excited to finally see Ryan after a summer of confidence, working out, and getting into shape. Despite Joe’s warnings and Gabe’s…well, _Gabe_ , he was certain that everything would go smoothly and that he would be able to text them later that day with an “I told you so.” However, it seemed as though the “I told you so” would not be coming for some time, if ever, because Patrick was already ready to give up. He clearly did not belong at Harvard and Ryan probably thought he was pathetic. Ryan was probably laughing at him.

Patrick, on the other hand, was crying. He didn’t care that he was in public, because he was utterly _humiliated_. “Do they just put you on the spot like that all time?!” he exclaimed, to whom he was unsure but simply needing to get out the frustration.

“The professors?” came a voice behind him. “Yeah, they tend to do that.”

He turned around, and _holy fuck_ , Patrick found himself staring at the most gorgeous man he had _ever met_.

If he wasn’t so focused on getting Ryan back, he might have thought about how incredibly unfair and cruel of the world it was to place this _Adonis_ across from him while Patrick, instead, was red and puffy and just an absolute _mess_.

And he was still frustrated. “So if you don’t know the answer, they just kick you out?”

“You’ve got Hurley, huh?”

Patrick nodded. “Yes,” he confirmed aloud. “Did he do that to you too?”

“Made me cry?” he asked, and Patrick nodded again. “Oh yeah, like a fucking _baby_. Not in class, mind you – I was in my room – but yeah, he’ll kick you right in the balls. He’s a hard ass, but in the end he does mean well. Who else have you got?”

“Umm…” It took Patrick a moment to remember his schedule. “Armstrong, Whibley, and Cuomo.”

“Okay, speak up in Armstrong’s class,” the gorgeous stranger explained. “He really likes people that are opinionated. Whibley…try to get a seat in the back if you can, because he tends to spit when he speaks about products liability. Like, great dude and all, but he gets way too into it, if you know what I mean.” Patrick would _definitely_ not be sitting anywhere near the front if he could help it. “And for Cuomo, make sure you read your footnotes, because that’s where he gets most of his exam questions.”

Patrick was dumbstruck. How did he get so lucky? “Wow, I’m really glad I met you,” he told the man, because he really was glad. “Are you a third year?”

“Well, actually—”

“Patrick?”

The moment he heard Ryan’s voice, Patrick whirled around and stood up, the beautiful stranger momentarily forgotten. “Hi Ryan!” he exclaimed, a smile breaking out onto his face. He bounded forward and wrapped his arms around the taller man, not even noticing that initially the other man hadn’t even bothered to return the hug. When Ryan did put his arms around Patrick, his movements were very distanced and awkward, but Patrick didn’t think much about it — he was too happy to see Ryan in the first place. “Oh Ryan,” he began, face in the other man’s shirt, “it was _horrible_.”

“Yeah?” the taller man asked, patting Patrick’s back once before disengaging himself. “What happened?”

“Oh, this _awful_ preppy boy—”

“Ryan?”

Oh no. Patrick _knew_ that voice, he had just _heard_ that voice showing him up in class. It was the awful preppy boy, and he was coming up right beside Ryan and…throwing his arm around his waist? Were they…friends?

“Hey Patrick,” Ryan began, tension immediately building in the yard, “have you met Brendon? My fri—I mean, b-boyfr—”

The shorter, snooty man held up his hand. “I’m his _fiancé_.”

Patrick suddenly couldn’t hear a thing happening around him. He didn’t know what Ryan was saying to him or what _Brendon_ was saying to Ryan as he grabbed his bag and _ran_ from the scene, putting as much distance between himself and the _happy couple_ as possible. It was in moments like these that Patrick wished he had a car so that he could just drive aimlessly until he found somewhere safe, but he settled for running off campus – and it was a huge campus, so even _that_ took a while – and a few blocks away before almost collapsing.

He was lucky he had spent the summer working out, because otherwise he wouldn’t have even gotten _that_ far. But that was about as far as luck took him, since _clearly_ working out and getting into shape hadn’t been enough for Ryan.

Goddamn it, Joe and Gabe were right. He should be expecting an “I told you so” from _them_.

As if someone up there was smiling down on him, it was at that moment that Patrick looked up and discovered he was standing in front of a record store. This might have been the best thing to happen all day — aside from meeting that gorgeous stranger, but he was unlikely to cross paths with the man ever again. Especially if the man had stuck around long enough to witness the scene between Patrick and Ryan, because _yikes_. Patrick took a breath and pushed open the door, and as the bell rang to announce his entrance, he was met with a, “we’re closed.”

“No we’re not, dumbass.”

Standing at the counter were two men who looked to be about Patrick’s age, both with long hair and one…well, he had to be as tall as Gabe, because he looked like he could tower over Patrick. Granted, at only five foot four, who couldn’t?

The shorter one took a closer look at Patrick. “Jeez, are you alright, buddy?”

“Umm, no? I guess? I don’t know.”

The two of them looked at him some more – god, he was starting to feel like a museum exhibit – before turning to one another. They didn’t appear to speak with words, but their facial expressions carried their own conversations, as if the men were having an entire argument inside each other’s heads. Maybe they could read each other’s minds. Patrick wished he could read Ryan’s mind, maybe he would have known what to expect when he had briefly crossed paths with him earlier in the morning. The thought of Ryan threatened tears again, and Patrick sniffled as he tried to keep from breaking down in front of the other men.

“Okay,” the taller one began, “we’ve decided that because you’re clearly not having a very good day, you can pick out one free record from the store.”

Patrick’s head snapped up. “Wait…really? You don’t have to do that.”

“Of course we do.”

“No, really,” he protested. “I know it’ll harm your inventory and sales. I used to work for a record store in—”

“Yes we do, so pick something out,” the shorter one cut him off to say in a no-nonsense tone. It was clear that he was not going to accept “no” for an answer, so Patrick nodded and turned toward the stacks to check out the collection.

The collection actually wasn’t that bad. There weren’t as many obscure, indie bands in the stacks as there had been in Patrick’s store – he might not have _owned_ it, but his position allowed him to place the orders, and damn it if Patrick wasn’t pretentious about his knowledge of music – but he had to admire some of the names he found as he flipped through the records. He would have to come back to the store again so that he could spend actual money – what little actual money he had, thank _god_ he got a scholarship – to support them.

He was so enveloped by his browsing that he hadn’t even noticed the bell ring and another person enter the store, but he _did_ notice the stiffening of the shorter employee, who had moved from the counter to put away last minute non-purchases. The tension did not break for the entire time that the delivery boy – was he even an adult? – was in the store, but as soon as he walked back out the door, the taller employee came bounding over.

“God, Carden, you _really_ need to make a move.”

The shorter man – Carden – frowned. “No way. I’m not embarrassing myself like that.”

“You see,” the other man turned to Patrick, “that was Kevin, he’s our regularly delivery guy. Comes in here most days with a package or two. And Carden here, well, he’s _crazy_ for him. Would probably get down on one knee and propose if he weren’t such a coward.”

Patrick watched Carden elbow his co-worker and mutter, “shut the fuck up, Bill.”

“You should go for it,” he surprised himself by saying. The other two men stared at him. “I just got my heart fucking crushed, I want to see _someone_ get their happy ending.”

“Fuck. Sorry to hear that,” Carden responded.

“Don’t worry about it. My fault for going all the way to Harvard for the fucke—”

“Harvard? You go to _Harvard?_ ”

Patrick could feel that this was going to take some explaining. He could only hope that at the end of it, they wouldn’t think that he was absolutely pathetic. “You see, my boyfriend Ryan broke up with me this summer because I’m too much of an Elton for him…”

* * *

Things didn’t improve over the following couple weeks and Patrick was absolutely devastated. He wasn’t sure he was cut out for law school.

First, he had tried to join a study group with some other classmates, only to discover that they all apparently hated him. While nobody said anything of the sort aloud, Patrick could tell that there was a “dumb blonde” aspect to their antagonism to toward him — they didn’t think he was smart enough to be there. It also appeared that they found him to be a pretentious jerk when it came to music, because Patrick wouldn’t shut up about music whenever he got the chance, and well, he could hand that one to them. He _was_ a bit of a pretentious jerk about music. However, the worst part of it all was the _rumours_.

Apparently, Brendon had been spreading around that Patrick was calling Victoria a dyke. As if Patrick would ever say something like that.

He was _gay_ for crying out loud! And Brendon knew that!

And then there had been the phone call home to Joe and Gabe, where he had learned that Joe was engaged to be married. He should have seen that coming, because Joe and Marie had been together for years and were blissfully happy, but the news of the engagement came too soon after learning about _Ryan’s_ engagement, so it left Patrick feeling deflated and empty. Not that he was going to tell Joe that, because he wanted to be happy for his friend. Joe wanted him to be the best man, and well, Patrick couldn’t turn down such an offer.

He thought that maybe things were improving when he overheard voices in the hallway talking about a party. It had been so long since he had been to a party.

Poking his head out of his dorm room, Patrick asked, “no way, someone at this school is actually holding a party?”

Immediately, he regretted having said a thing, because there stood Brendon with his gruff looking friend. The two of them looked at him with disdain and Patrick just wanted to crawl into a hole and disappear. Maybe if he was lucky, they would murder him and he _would_ disappear. He was so distracted by his own awkward disappearance fantasies that he was almost caught off guard when Brendon opened his mouth to say, “yes, but you wouldn’t be interested. It’s a costume party.”

“I love costume parties.” God, Patrick, could you have sounded any more _lame?_

“Oh,” the snooty man responded, a ghost of a smile flickering onto his face. “Then I guess we’ll see you there.”

Patrick had not expected much from the party, but he certainly didn’t expect _this_.

He didn’t expect to show up dressed like Ziggy Stardust-era David Bowie, in the tight colourful number that showed off both his bulge and his thighs, only to find that _nobody else was in costume_. Patrick figured that maybe he _should_ have expected something like this to happen, considering who the invitation came from, but he had held out hope that perhaps something was going right for once. Brendon’s laughter at Patrick’s outfit couldn’t phase him because Patrick knew he looked _fucking fabulous_ , but the conversation with Ryan where the other man had revealed that Patrick would never be good enough for him…

Well, that one hurt.

But it did switch the light on in his head. Patrick had made it this far. He had gotten into Harvard Law School on his own merit.

So, it was time to stop doing it for Ryan. It was time to start doing it for _himself_.

He hadn’t yet bought a computer for school because he didn’t exactly have the money, but since everyone else seemed to have one, he figured that would be the first step. Patrick didn’t count on running into that _Adonis_ again while standing in line at the campus shop, feather boa doing nothing to hide the bulge in his costume that threatened to grow if he turned around to face the man. It certainly didn’t help matters when the other man leaned forward and whispered to Patrick in his honey voice, “dude, you look fucking hot right now.”

But Patrick couldn’t exactly do anything about it. If he was going to focus on his education for himself, he couldn’t let another relationship get in his way.

* * *

“Excuse me, Tom Conrad?”

Patrick couldn’t believe he was doing this. Over the past few weeks, he had managed to become friends with Mike and Bill, the two record shop owners – not just employees, but _owners_ – and in sharing his own relationship woes about Ryan, he learned a bit about Mike’s own relationship woes. Not just his inability to make a move on Kevin the delivery boy, but also his ex-boyfriend Tom, who had kept Mike’s guitar as revenge for Mike kicking him out of their band when the asshole dumped him. Like, who even does that shit?

So, here he was: standing in front of Tom’s apartment with Mike, wearing his suit (he _had_ just come from class), and playing the role of attorney.

“Who’s asking?”

“Patrick Stump. I’m Mr. Carden’s attorney,” he explained, “and I’m here to discuss the legal situation at hand.”

Tom’s expression remained blank. “Legal situation?”

Patrick nodded. “Yes. Do you understand what subject matter jurisdiction is?” he asked.

“Uhh, no?”

“No, I didn’t think so. You see,” he began, “you and Mr. Carden had a common law marriage, which entitles him to…what is legally referred to as…” He struggled to remember the language from his readings. “Equitable division of the assets!”

“What?” The other man’s expression was still blank.

“Due to the fact that you’ve retained this residence, which in fact had Mr. Carden’s name on the lease, not _yours_ – and we could sue for that if we wanted—” Patrick really hoped that Tom did not want to pursue that course of action. “—Mr. Carden is entitled to…full instrumental ownership and will be enforcing that ownership…” He had hoped for _some_ change in facial expression by now, but the man still remained blank. “Right now!”

“I don’t know what the fuck you want from me.”

“I’m taking my guitar, you fuckwad,” Mike bit out in response. “Now hand it over before I fucking sue for my apartment back.”

And…it worked. Patrick couldn’t believe it actually worked. The asshole hand handed over Mike’s _baby_ , which he brought back to the record store and played for _hours_ with a mirthful smile on his face. He even let Patrick play a bit, which is when Mike and Bill learned that Patrick was actually a _really good_ musician. They had questioned him about his decision to pursue law school when he could be making music, and Patrick had thought about that once or twice himself. Ultimately, he had chosen this path and he would at least see it through until the end, because Patrick Stump does not give up.

Which was how he somehow found himself as one of the law students chosen for Professor Armstrong’s internship, working on an _actual case_.

* * *

“Alright, we’re defending Frank Iero, whose very wealthy husband was found shot to death in their mansion.”

“Who found the body?” one of the other interns asked. Patrick tried to remember his name — he thought maybe it was Ray something? The man was tall with a lot of hair, and Patrick was starting to feel like everyone in Boston was taller than him.

Armstrong looked down at his file. “The brother-in-law. The three of them lived together in the house.”

“If I had to live with my brother-in-law, I’d shoot my husband too,” someone commented.

Ray something spoke up again. “Gold digger, you think?”

“No.” Armstrong shook his head. “I don’t think so. Iero was already rich himself from some prep band or something, so he wouldn’t have needed the money. Frankly – pun not intended – they did seem like a love match. The two seemed to support each other in their respective careers, and the husband was even seen at a number of Iero’s shows—”

“Wait.” Something about this was starting to sound _familiar_ to Patrick. “Frank Iero of _Pencey Prep?_ ”

Armstrong looked at his file again. “Yes, that’s the band’s name. You know him?”

“I wish! I _idolized_ Pencey Prep. Frank is _amazing_.”

“Amazing how?”

Patrick’s face lit up. “You have _not_ seen this man’s stage presence, like, oh my god. You should see him in Leathermouth! He can command a room while being on his knees and—”

“In all likelihood,” Armstrong began, “he’s completely guilty.”

Somehow, that didn’t seem right to Patrick. Frank Iero was a badass who fought back against injustices, both with his music and his fists — he couldn’t imagine Frank Iero engaging in such an injustice by shooting his own husband. The man might have created angry punk music, but he was otherwise such a happy individual and it didn’t make sense to Patrick. Happy people didn’t shoot their husbands. Hell, even unhappy people didn’t shoot their partners – Mike hadn’t shot Tom for stealing his fucking guitar – so the thought of Frank Iero being guilty of murder did not sit well with Patrick.

“I don’t—”

He was cut off when the door opened and in walked the _Adonis_ from his first day of class, the gorgeous stranger who hit on him in the campus shop.

“Sorry I’m late,” he said to the group, his grin absolutely _mesmerizing_ to Patrick.

“This is Pete Wentz, another associate,” Armstrong explained to his interns. “Top three in his class and former editor of the Harvard Law Review. You’ve probably seen him lurking around campus, doing my research.”

The man – _Pete_ – continued to grin. “Thanks for the introduction.”

Patrick couldn’t stop staring. That gorgeous man was an _actual lawyer_. He didn’t look like a lawyer. Well, he had the suit, but he also had the most gorgeous bangs hanging in his face and could easily pass off as an undergraduate, if he tried. And now he was _here_ , working on the same case as Patrick. This man had seen Patrick in almost _nothing_ and they would be working together. Oh god. Not that it was any different than Ryan also being on the case, since he had _actually_ seen Patrick in nothing, but he had already decided that Ryan was behind him. The _Adonis_ – Pete – was still an unknown in Patrick’s plan.

“What about the murder weapon?”

“The gun is still missing,” Armstrong confirmed.

A bearded intern – Patrick could have sworn he heard someone call the guy _Butcher_ , but that couldn’t be right – spoke up. “So that gave Frank plenty of time to stash it.”

“No,” Patrick said. “I still don’t think Frank could have done this.”

There was silence. Everyone was staring at him. He would have to elaborate or he would definitely look stupid, and he didn’t want Pete to think he was stupid, especially after all the help Pete gave him on his first day. “Music gives you endorphins. Endorphins make you happy. Happy people don’t shoot their husbands. They just don’t.”

The staring continued.

But Patrick was even more certain of Frank Iero’s innocence when the man was brought in to give a statement to the defense team.

“I walked in,” the musician explained, “and I saw my husband lying on the floor. I bent down to check his pulse and screamed my fucking head off, which is when Mikey and Jamia ran inside.”

“Your brother-in-law and the maid,” Armstrong stated.

“Yes.”

“Where they saw you standing over his body, covered in his blood.”

Frank looked both confused and frustrated at the same time. “Why the fuck would I kill my husband?”

“Insurance, a love affair, pure unadulterated hatred,” Armstrong listed off. “The DA will come up with plenty of reasons, trust me. Our job is to prove them wrong.”

“I loved him,” the musician stated.

“Your music is full of violent threats. That won’t look too good to a jury.”

“Are you really doing this right now? That whole fucking ‘only violent people make violent music, corrupted by the devil’ bullshit?”

Frank had a very good point, and Patrick could tell that some of the other interns thought the same way, but it was clear that nobody was going to say anything. The match between Frank Iero and Gerard Way had been, as Professor Armstrong had mentioned earlier, appeared to be a love match and there was little evidence to suggest that Frank had any sort of reason to kill him. The only evidence that the court had was the combined word of Mikey Way and Jamia Nestor…and, apparently, Frank’s lyrics. Because saying that you’re going to kill the president of the United States of America _definitely_ means you’re going to kill your husband, right?

“Frank, I believe you,” Armstrong told him (Patrick highly doubted that), “but if we’re going to win this, you need to give me an alibi.”

Frank crossed his arms. “Well, I can’t give you that. And if you put me on the stand, I’ll lie.”

“Then I suppose we’re done for the day.”

The officers closed in to move Frank from the room, but Patrick needed to talk to him first. This was one of his _idols_ , but most importantly, he needed Frank to know that whether or not Armstrong did, _Patrick_ believed him. As Patrick came to Frank’s side, Frank scrutinized him for a moment. “I know you,” he stated. He continued to squint at Patrick until he said, “You’ve been to my shows. In Chicago. You’re always in the front row, not far from Gee.”

Patrick nodded. “Man, I fucking _idolize_ you. I loved Pencey and I love Leathermouth and I don’t for a _second_ believe you’d ever hurt him.”

“Wow, thanks. Are you one of my lawyers?”

“Sort of,” Patrick responded. “I’m a law student – an intern – so I guess…yeah, I am.”

Frank smiled as though somehow this interaction with little nobody Patrick Stump had made his entire day. “That’s badass, dude! Thank _fuck_ one of you has a brain.”

* * *

Patrick couldn’t help but feel both rage and hopelessness when he thought about it.

“And I’m the only one who believes him,” he explained to Mike and Bill, leaning against the wall beside the counter in their record shop. “Armstrong sure as hell doesn’t, and I don’t think the rest of the team knows a fucking _thing_ about him. There’s no way in hell they’re going to understand that Frank Iero would never kill his husband.”

“Well, you said Wentz is on the team, right?” Mike asked. “He used to be pretty huge in the scene, I bet he—”

The bell rang and Mike immediately froze.

Turning toward the door, Patrick was not surprised. There was the regular delivery boy – he had since discovered that Kevin was definitely not underage, but it didn’t stop Patrick from thinking of him as a _boy_ , since he definitely had an even more youthful appearance than Patrick – coming straight toward them, and Mike looked just about ready to bolt. Bill grabbed his arm to prevent exactly that from happening, so that Mike was stuck standing there when Kevin approached. Patrick was _so_ glad he was there to witness it.

“Package for Mike?” the boy asked, sounding more enthusiastic than a delivery person should.

Mike just stared at him like a deer caught in the headlights.

“He’s got a package for you,” Bill told him, still gripping onto the shorter man’s arm so that he wouldn’t disappear. Mike nodded and reached out to grab the device from Kevin so that he could sign for it.

The delivery boy was not perturbed. “How are you today?”

“F-fine, I guess.”

“Awesome!” Kevin responded, taking the device back. “I’ll see you again soon, okay?”

Mike nodded and the kid turned, walking away and— was he shaking his ass in those tight, brown uniform shorts? God, this kid was so fucking _obvious_ and Mike still couldn’t make a move. Patrick was sure that this had to look even more embarrassing than he had when he first discovered Ryan and Brendon’s engagement. He shook his head at Mike, who – now that Kevin was gone – was collapsing headfirst onto the counter, groaning.

“Is this the only interaction you two have ever had?” Patrick asked.

Mike groaned again. Bill nodded.

“Well, he _definitely_ wants you. I can’t understand why you don’t just make a move. You’ve got all the equipment!” Patrick thought for a moment. “You’ve got all the equipment, right? Oh god, is that offensive to ask? What’s in your pants is _not_ my busine—”

“Yes, I’ve got a fucking dick,” Mike said, raising his head. “Christ, Stump.”

“Okay, then we need to think of a strategy.”

“If you’re gonna tell me to do something stupid like bend and snap or some fucking shit, I’m banning you from this store.”

Patrick shook his head. “No, I was thinking about your guitar…”

* * *

“If Frank didn’t kill the guy,” one of the interns asked, “then who did?”

Pete didn’t even look up from where he was making notes when he said, “my money is on the brother or the ex-wife.”

“No,” Armstrong said. “Mikey isn’t even in the will, killing his brother would get him nothing. And there’s no indication of any animosity between them, besides Mikey’s blatant disapproval of his brother’s husband. No motive.”

“Well,” Pete began, “what about the ex-wife?”

“Covered. She was onstage at Warped at the time, there are thousands of witnesses. Brendon, get me some plum sauce.”

The snooty man rolled his eyes but stood from the table and left the room. Patrick might not have liked Brendon so much, but it did seem as though Armstrong only wanted the man there to wait on him as opposed to lend his thoughts to the case. That didn’t seem fair, considering all the interns were working very hard on both this _and_ their schoolwork. He shook himself from the thought — he shouldn’t be focusing on Brendon; he should be focusing on Pete.

No—fuck! He should be focusing on _Frank_.

“All I know is that it wasn’t Frank,” he told the group, again met with skeptical or even _bored_ stares. People were clearly over his opinion.

“That’s touching,” Armstrong began, “but we need an alibi.”

Well, then Patrick would get one.

He wasted no time in swinging by the prison after work, having stopped only briefly at the record store first to pick up some magazines and records. He wasn’t sure what Frank was actually allowed in the prison, and it’s not as though Patrick had disposable income, but he had to do _something_ to make the man more comfortable while he was stuck in there. It was the least he could do for one of his idols while his idiot coworkers and classmates thought that he deserved to be locked away for life. They would do their jobs to get him _out_ of prison, but it was clear that most them didn’t believe Frank whatsoever.

“I’ve got you some Black Flag and Misfits – you probably already have these ones at home, but you’ll at least hopefully be able to listen to them here – and some Thursday as well, and then I threw in one of my favourites from Saves the Day,” Patrick explained. Then he picked up the Kerrang! magazine. “Oh, and the bible.”

“God, Patrick, you are a fucking _lifeline_ ,” Frank exclaimed, eyes wide and smiling.

Patrick couldn’t help but smile. “It’s the least I can do.”

“I’m just glad it’s you and not Armstrong again. You wouldn’t believe how many times the dude has come to get the alibi out of me.”

“Well actually,” he began, “that’s why I’m here. I really need the alibi.”

“Patrick, I can’t.”

“It could really help your case, Frank. I _know_ you didn’t do this, but if you just told me your alibi…we could end this before it even begins.”

Frank shook his head. “No, you see, people would be furious. It could basically ruin me.”

“Frank. You can trust me.”

The musician bit his lip, in a spot where Patrick was sure he’d be biting a lip ring if his piercings hadn’t been removed by the prison officers. “Okay, well, you know that I’ve made a career out of punk music, right? That everyone knows me because I’m a motherfucking badass, that’s my whole fucking image.”

Patrick nodded. “You _are_ a badass. It’s one of the reasons I keep going to your shows.”

“Well, on the day of Gerard’s murder…I was…” Frank seemed to struggle with what he was trying to say. “I was…” Patrick couldn’t hear what came next, he was whispering it into the phone.

“Hmmm? I didn’t hear you.”

Frank whispered again, a little louder, but Patrick still couldn’t make it out. His face must have demonstrated his confusion, because Frank yelled out, “I was auditioning for a pop band!”

Patrick’s face was blank. “That’s it?”

“Dude, you don’t know the industry. They will fucking _decimate_ me. It’s bad enough already that I’m gay, but at least as a gay punk badass, nobody fucks with me. If I join some fucking pop band, then they’re going to destroy me. It would be bearable if I still had Gee, he was super supportive and shit, but without Gee…” He seemed like he was almost ready to break. “I can’t do it, Patrick. Without Gee, I’m not going through all the bullshit that the oppressive homophobic system is going to throw at me.”

Patrick understood. He didn’t quite _agree_ – he figured that Frank Iero would be the kind to fight back against that sort of thing anyway – but he understood.

“Your secret is safe with me.”

However, he didn’t seem to consider the fact that any and all visitors Frank might receive in prison would be reported back to the defense team. This made sense logically, since it provided the lawyers with potential new witnesses to question, but Patrick had never done anything like this before. He was just a first year law student, after all. So, when he returned to work the next day and Armstrong confronted him – in front of the entire group – about having visited Frank in prison, Patrick was taken aback and not sure how to respond.

“Well,” he tried to explain, “I went to get his alibi.”

“And did you?”

“Oh, yeah. It’s a good one too.”

Armstrong smiled. “That’s great! What is it?”

This was the part that Patrick was dreading. “Well, that’s the thing. I can’t tell you.”

The look on Armstrong’s face dropped. He must have been wondering what the _hell_ he had been thinking in hiring Patrick for his internship, because what use was the guy who couldn’t even provide the little information he was able to get out of the musician? Armstrong probably thought he was lying – Patrick would probably think he was lying too, just to save face – but Patrick refused to break Frank’s trust. The musician had told Patrick in confidence where he had been on the day his husband was murdered, and Patrick would not betray him.

“Why not?” Armstrong prompted.

“Because I promised him I wouldn’t,” Patrick stated plainly.

“This is a fucking murder trial, not high school! He’s not your best friend or your bandmate, he’s _a criminal_. I want the alibi.”

“I can’t tell you. But I _can_ tell you that he’s innocent.”

Armstrong looked about ready to throttle Patrick, but the student was saved when someone came in to let the professor know that the former Mrs. Way was on the phone for him. The man excused himself and Patrick looked down at his own notes, ignoring the looks of his team as they all continued to stare at him. Was this his life? Was he doomed to just have people staring at him _all the fucking time_ for trying to do the right thing? He was afraid to look up because the last thing he wanted to see was disappointment on _Pete’s_ face — Pete, the gorgeous lawyer without whom Patrick probably wouldn’t even still _be_ there.

“Are you crazy? Just tell him the alibi!” one of the interns said, while another followed up with, “we’ll lose the case if you don’t.”

“Then we’re not very good lawyers,” Patrick muttered.

At that moment, Ryan leaned forward, invading Patrick’s personal space. “If you tell him, he’ll probably hire you as a summer associate. Forget about Frank, just think about yourself.”

Patrick snapped up at that. He was pretty sure he saw even _Brendon_ frowning. “I gave him my _word_ , Ryan!”

“So?”

Any response Patrick might have given was forgotten when Armstrong returned to the room, commenting that the ex-wife was apparently completely unconcerned that her interview was supposed to happen that day. She had instead decided to play with her band at some festival, which Patrick could understand to a degree – although there was probably someone else available to take her spot, who would _want_ to do a murder trial interview when they could be onstage doing what they loved? – he did have to wonder why she cared so little about her ex-husband’s murder.

“Wait, a music festival?” someone – Brendon’s burly friend, his name might have been Spencer? – asked, looking at Patrick. “Isn’t that like, your mothership?”

Patrick had to make up for the alibi situation. “I could go, if you want me to.”

Armstrong nodded. “Pete? Go with him.”

And that’s how Patrick ended in Pete’s car with the beautiful man, driving toward a loud hardcore festival to interview Lyn-Z aka the former Mrs. Lindsey Way, the first spouse of Gerard Way before he had met Frank Iero. Apparently it had actually been Lyn-Z who introduced them, which made sense considering that they were both badasses in the music scene. And while Patrick idolized Frank and had nothing but respect for Gerard Way, he couldn’t imagine having to watch your husband leave you for the man you introduced him to — that did seem like it would hurt.

“He seems a little untrustworthy to me,” Pete said.

“Who? Frank?”

“Yeah. I mean, this guy basically moved in on his friend’s husband, like who does that?” He kept his eyes on the road, but shook his head nonetheless. “It just seems like a dick move to me.”

“Well,” Patrick tried to reason, “Maybe it was true love.”

“You believe in true love?”

He blushed. “Yeah, of course. I’d love to believe that there’s someone out there just for me, you know? I came out here thinking that I was chasing him and realized I was wrong, and that could have been the moment that turned me off the idea forever but…I still want to find that someone. And maybe…maybe that someone for Frank was Gerard.”

“Hmm.” It wasn’t much, but Patrick could tell that Pete was genuinely considering his little speech.

“But,” Pete then said, “he seems like he’s hiding something.”

“Maybe it’s not what you think it is,” Patrick pointed out to him, because he was sure that Pete would never guess.

“Maybe it’s _exactly_ what I think it is.”

“Don’t be such a butthead.”

The barking laugh that Pete let out was…god, even is _laugh_ had Patrick tingling all over. “Did you just call me a butthead? I don’t think anyone has called me a butthead since like…third grade.” Despite the insult Patrick had given him, Pete’s voice sounded…warm. Like he was actually _enjoying_ the exchange.

It made Patrick confident enough to smile and retort, “maybe not to your _face_.”

Pete and Patrick had to pay to enter the festival, but thankfully Pete was an actual successful lawyer, which meant that he had money, unlike Patrick. It didn’t take long to find Lyn-Z – all they had to do was figure out which stage Mindless Self Indulgence would be playing on, and then show security their identification (because everyone knew about the Way murder, nobody questioned lawyers coming to speak to his ex-wife) – and while she was reluctant to speak to the men, she did give them some valuable information.

Firstly, she confirmed for Patrick and Pete that Frank and Gerard definitely _were_ a love match with almost no animosity between them whatsoever. Secondly, she introduced the idea that maybe – just _maybe_ – Frank had been a little too close to the maid.

Of course, Patrick didn’t believe the rumour in the slightest, and he did not hesitate to tell Pete exactly that.

“And you know for a fact that she’s lying?” Pete asked, clearly skeptical.

“Of course! Did you _see_ all those tattoos?”

“So now you’re discriminating against people with tattoos?”

Well, no. That wasn’t his point. _Frank_ had tattoos, after all, and Patrick would believe anything the musician said. And he certainly didn’t want Pete to think he was that shallow, especially as—oh god, Pete was rolling up the sleeves of his dress shirt, and there they were: _tattoos_. Fuck, did Pete really have to get _hotter?_ It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fucking fair.

“No! But some of them just look…I don’t know, fake. Not genuine.”

The raised eyebrow that Pete gave him spoke volumes.

“Whatever,” Patrick muttered as he climbed back into Pete’s fancy ass, flashy car. How the fuck was this _Adonis_ with the emo bangs, tattoos covering his arms, and this fancy ass car an _actual lawyer?_ God, he was too perfect.

“She’s also a bassist,” Patrick pointed out. He had heard Frank say once that bassists were just untalented guitarists, and while he didn’t quite agree, Patrick did recognize that bass was one of the easiest instruments to play and therefore did not require much skill or dedication from the musician. Ergo, the lack of dedication demonstrated by Lyn-Z in her own music – and Patrick had heard Mindless Self Indulgence, it was certainly…something – made her untrustworthy. Yeah, okay, Patrick didn’t actually believe that _at all_.

But it was hard enough trying to explain using _evidence_ to a fucking _lawyer_ this gut feeling he got about the accusation.

“I’m also a bassist,” Pete countered, and well…fuck.

Patrick wasn’t expecting _that_.

Mike had commented a while back that Pete used to be well-known in the scene, but Patrick had forgotten about it almost instantly due to the interaction between Mike and Kevin. But now that Pete brought up his role as a bassist, Patrick wanted to know more. However, after having made such a stupid comment, Pete probably wanted nothing to do with Patrick.

“If we win this case,” Pete continued, “I’ll even play for you.”

“Oh, goody.”

His tone might have been sarcastic, but Patrick was sure that he would probably melt if Pete Wentz serenaded him with his bass guitar. He was caught off guard, however, when the gorgeous man suddenly asked, “how do you think I’d look with blonde hair?”

Patrick laughed. “I’m not sure you can handle it. I can barely handle it.”

* * *

The biggest surprise yet came when Patrick was sitting in his dorm room with the door wide open, reading through the deposition yet again. He heard a knock on the door, and when he looked up, there was _Brendon fucking Urie_ standing in his doorway.

“Are you done with that deposition yet?” Brendon asked.

Patrick nodded and gestured over it. “Yeah, take it. I’ve read it so many times that the words are starting to blur together.”

“You know,” Brendon began as he grabbed the file, “I’m surprised you didn’t tell Armstrong the alibi.”

“I promised Frank and it’s not my alibi to—”

“No, no, it’s okay. I’m surprised, but honestly, mostly _impressed_. That was very…” He seemed to think it over for a second before continuing, “ _classy_ of you.”

Patrick wasn’t sure what to think. “Oh. Thanks.”

He was especially unsure of what to think when Brendon actually sat down on the floor beside him and suddenly asked, “have you noticed that Armstrong never asks Ryan to bring him his coffee? He’s got to have asked me about a thousand times.”

And just like that, they had strung up a rapport.

Brendon confirmed that Ryan had not changed at all in their relationship — he was sending out his laundry instead of doing it on his own.

But the part that got Patrick the most was when Brendon revealed that Ryan _hadn’t even gotten into Harvard when he first applied_. He’s been waitlisted and his parents had to pull some strings to get him in. Patrick had gotten into Harvard law on his own, on his own merit, and the man who made him feel like he wasn’t smart and wasn’t _enough_ hadn’t even managed that. Patrick’s surprise was short-lived when Brendon noticed his guitar in the corner, and just like that, Patrick discovered that Brendon was _also_ a pretentious musician just like him.

He got the feeling that if Ryan hadn’t been involved, he and Brendon would have gotten along famously.

* * *

“And where was he exactly?” the judge asked the witness on the stand.

Mikey Way shuffled in his seat to sit up straight and looked pointedly toward Frank and the defense. “Standing over my brother’s dead body, drenched in his blood.”

“And what was the defendant doing?”

“I don’t know,” the brother responded. “I ran to call the police.”

It continued like that for a while. Mikey was adamant that he hadn’t actually _seen_ Frank shoot Gerard and that no, Frank did _not_ have a gun when he found them. His excuse was that he had been playing his bass guitar at the time – god, was _everyone_ in Patrick’s life a bassist? – and hadn’t heard the gunshot, and when he came up from the basement, had found his brother-in-law standing over the body and covered in blood. He reminded the court of this fact numerous times – _Frank standing over the body, Frank drenched in blood_ – that it seemed, to Patrick, that the man was trying to remember the details of his own story.

The ex-wife had been called to the stand next. Lyn-Z kept to her accusations about Frank and Jamia, insisting that her ex-husband’s new beau had been sleeping with the maid and potentially conspiring against Gerard. Patrick could tell that she didn’t believe her own story, but the jury was eating it up.

“Can you tell me what this is?” the prosecution lawyer – some dude named McCracken with stringy black hair tied back behind him – asked.

Jamia Nestor leaned forward to the microphone and responded, “my uniform.”

“This is what Mr. Iero had you wearing while cleaning his house?”

“Yes, it is.”

Patrick had to hand it to them, it _did_ look a little suspect. The little uniform that McCracken was holding up for the court to see looked like little more than a kinky BDSM thing and, well, it certainly made the relationship between Frank and Jamia seem…sexual. And when the prosecution asked if she had been having sexual relations with the defendant, she said yes. McCracken seemed to think that was enough and called Jamia down from the stand. The judge broke for recess and as the officers took Frank away, he turned to Patrick and said, “Gee and I _both_ came up with the uniforms. We thought it was cool.”

“I believe you,” was all Patrick could think to say as he watched his idol be dragged away.

The revelation came to him when he was on the phone with Mike, who was explaining – with Bill laughing like a deranged hyena in the background – that his attempt to serenade Kevin with the guitar had resulted in breaking the delivery boy’s nose.

_“I turned too suddenly and smashed him in the face with the headstock. God, I’m a fucking idiot.”_

“I’ll be there as soon as court is out, I promise. But don’t worry, my friend Gabe once barfed on a guy once while clubbing and they ended up dating for three months,” Patrick attempted to reassure him.

_“Yeah, okay. Your friend Gabe sounds like an idiot.”_

Patrick laughed. “Yeah, that he is.”

He was distracted from whatever else Mike had to say on the phone as he began to pick up another conversation nearby. He knew that voice — it was the maid, Jamia Nestor. He couldn’t help eavesdropping when he heard her speaking terms of endearment, promising that everything would be okay but that she would “need support in court this afternoon.” The part that really grabbed Patrick’s attention was when she said, “love you, Alicia” and hung up the phone. It could be a gal pal, but something about that tone of voice suggested otherwise.

Quickly ending the call with Mike, Patrick shoved his phone into his pocket and ran back into the courtroom, where the defense team was gathered around their table. “She’s gay!” he exclaimed, watching every pair of eyes turn to him.

“What?” Armstrong asked.

“She’s gay! Jamia’s gay! Or queer, at least, but she’s not sleeping with Frank!”

“And how do you know this?”

Patrick briefly considered just gesturing to all of him, because come on, he’s got gaydar. And so should half of the defense team, considering that he knew Ryan and Brendon and even Victoria were all queer too. Instead, he explained, “I overheard her talking to her girlfriend on the phone.”

“And you know for a fact that this was a girlfriend and not just a _girl friend?_ ”

“Yes! Look, I’m sure you have a tone of voice that you only use with your wife, right?” Armstrong didn’t respond but Patrick knew he was right. “Well, that’s what I heard.”

The lawyer stared at him. Would the staring _ever_ stop?

“I don’t have time for this,” he finally said. “I have a murder trial to attend to, so can you please take this seriously?”

Patrick felt a little deflated that his revelation had been so passively ignored. However, Pete leaned in close and told him not to worry, that he had an idea. Nodding, Patrick had no choice but to believe him as the team took their seats and court reconvened. Jamia was brought back to the stand, and Armstrong stood to question her. He asked simply if she had any proof that she and Frank had been having an affair, to which Jamia responded, “only the love in my heart.” Satisfied with the response, Armstrong returned to the defense, but that’s when Pete stood up and asked his associate to trust him.

“Did you ever take Mr. Iero on a date?” Pete asked the woman.

“No, but he took _me_ on a date.”

“Where?”

“A restaurant where no one would recognize us,” she responded, not providing any further detail. This already seemed to poke some holes in her story, because how would they possibly not recognize Frank Iero? And even then, if they hadn’t recognized Frank as the famous punk musician, the staff would surely recognize him in a picture — the man wasn’t exactly inconspicuous. Patrick understood what she was doing: trying to discourage them from reaching out to the restaurant to confirm.

Pete asked a couple more questions in quick succession – such as how long they had been dating – before asking, “and your girlfriend’s name is?”

“Alicia.”

The courtroom gasped. Even McCracken seemed taken aback.

“Sorry, I misunderstood,” Jamia insisted. “Alicia’s just a girlfriend like a friend who’s a girl, you know? My best girlfriend. Just a friend.”

And sure, people would buy that – girls called each other girlfriends all the time – but a woman with dark hair and thick black eyeliner stood up in the court and exclaimed, “you bitch! I fucking loved you!” before stomping out. Jamia looked distressed and called for Alicia, climbing down from the witness stand and running to chase her. Everyone was still shocked, but Patrick was grinning at Pete who was grinning right back at him. Pete had trusted him implicitly, and Patrick was sure that he was absolutely, _definitely_ in love with the man.

Not that he could focus on that at the moment, anyway. There was a much bigger situation at hand.

However, Patrick’s dedication to the case had crumbled later that night.

Because Professor Armstrong had felt him up in his office. Professor Armstrong had _hit on him_. Armstrong didn’t ask Patrick to be on the team because he thought Patrick was a great lawyer, he wanted Patrick on the team because he wanted to _sleep with Patrick_.

And if that hadn’t hurt enough, Brendon accused him of sleeping with Armstrong all along. He’d even scathingly suggested Patrick sleep with the jury too.

So, he was done with the whole thing.

Patrick was _done_.

* * *

Leaning his head on Bill’s shoulder, since Bill was sitting down and therefore his shoulder was actually within head-leaning distance, Patrick asked, “what’s the point in staying?”

Pete had also tried to convince him to stay. He’d run into Pete outside after fleeing from Armstrong’s office, where he told the other man about the older lawyer’s creepy behaviour. Patrick was almost afraid that Pete was going to rush into the office and corner him, he looked so incredibly angry, but instead the beautiful man attempted to convince Patrick not to quit — that they would not have succeeded in the courtroom that day without Patrick. And when Patrick tried to tell him that he was done being something he’s not, Pete insisted that Patrick was just being who he was meant to be all along.

But that wasn’t enough. He couldn’t do it.

“All people see when they look at me is a twinky, blonde piece of ass. Why did I even do this to myself?”

Mike and Bill hadn’t been around to see pre-Harvard Patrick, but he was sure that he wouldn’t have gotten this far if he had shown up for law school looking as he had before. As much as he was loathe to admit, the new look gave him a confidence that helped him push forward with his legal education. And if people were not attracted to the old Patrick, then he wouldn’t have gotten the internship, wouldn’t have been hit on by Armstrong, and maybe he’d have given up and gone home sooner. Despite his aversion to giving up, that was exactly what he was doing.

Giving up.

“I was just kidding myself,” he continued. “Nobody ever thought I could be a lawyer. I don’t think my own parents take me seriously. So, it’s time to go home and go back to what I’m good at…”

“If you want to work in a record store, you can stay here. We’d hire you,” Mike suggested.

“I appreciate it, but…I need to get as far away from here as possible.”

But the voice that spoke next was not Mike or Bill. “If you’re going to let one stupid prick ruin your life…” Turning around from where he was browsing through the stacks, Professor Hurley looked right at Patrick. “Then you’re not the man I thought you were.”

Later, he would learn that apparently Hurley was the best drummer that the Boston scene had ever seen.

In the meantime, he received a fortuitous call from Pete who had an idea.

* * *

“You’re fired. I have new representation.”

As Patrick entered the courtroom, he couldn’t help but admire the look of shock and anger on Armstrong’s face. The man was clearly not taking well to Frank’s decision to replace him with Patrick. “He can’t represent you!” he exclaimed as the blonde student approached the defense table. “He’s a law student!”

Patrick had been prepared for his. Behind him, Butcher – it turned out that wasn’t the guy’s _actual_ name, but it was how he was known to pretty much everyone he met – stood with a book on hand, ready to point out exactly where the Massachusetts Supreme Court had ruled that a law student can defend a client under the supervision of a licensed attorney. However, Armstrong hadn’t even had the chance to argue further when the judge commanded all counselors to approach the bench. What Armstrong _had_ argued was Patrick joining him, but Patrick was not going to let the man decide his career for him any longer.

McCracken had no problem with the decision. He probably thought that it would make it easier for him to win.

“I won’t allow it,” Armstrong told the judge.

So, Patrick had drawn attention to Armstrong’s attempt to hit on him several nights earlier. The man stiffened, but was adamant about his refusal to supervisor when the judge reminded Patrick that as a student, a licensed attorney must supervise him.

Pete raised his finger and smiled. “I’ll do it,” he offered.

And the judge accepted that.

Which meant that _Patrick_ was officially _Frank Iero’s_ legal representation. If he wasn’t so thrilled about the concept, he would probably be having a panic attack.

It helped that his friends were there. Mike and Bill were both sitting in the courtroom, Mike with Kevin by his side. It turned out that Kevin found Mike endearing, even if he _had_ broken his nose, and the two had been almost inseparable for days. Bill commented that it was sickening, but Patrick could see through him to where Bill was actually happy for his best friend. And Patrick could see that maybe the same happiness could be had for Bill soon, too — Joe and Gabe had come all the way out from Chicago to see the trial, and Bill hadn’t stopped sneaking glances at Gabe since the two curly-haired men sat down.

Mikey Way was the first witness called back to the stand. Patrick, standing to question his witness, reminded the court that only was there no proof in this case against Frank Iero, but also no mens rea — and, awkward as he was, he also decided to define the term. The judge told him to get on with it, so Patrick blushed and turned toward the witness.

“Mr. Way, when you got home, was your brother there?” he asked, already knowing how Mikey would respond.

“Not that I saw, but like I said, I went straight downstairs to play my bass.”

“And when you came upstairs, what happened?”

“I found Frank,” he explained, as he had numerous times already, “standing over his body, _drenched_ in his blood.”

“But Mr. Iero didn’t have a gun?” Patrick asked for confirmation.

“Not that I saw. He must have stashed it by then.”

Pete stood up from the defense table. “Move to strike that from the record, your honour,” he requested. “It’s speculation.”

The judge stuck it from the record, and Pete turned to Patrick to give him an encouraging smile. If Pete kept smiling at him like that, he would be able to achieve anything. Patrick continued with his questioning, asking Mikey to confirm that he had not heard the shot fired because he had been busy playing his bass. However, something about that wasn’t quite adding up. The story seemed simple – man is playing loud instrument, man doesn’t hear gunshot – but the constant repetition of the same detail after same detail seemed strange. It was as though the speech was prepared in his head and he hadn’t memorized any other information.

Still, Patrick needed another strategy because it’s not as though the court would accept “it sounded weird to me” as viable evidence.

“Mr. Way, how long have you been playing bass?” he asked.

“About ten years, since my brother was still writing music and encouraged me to play with him. I learned in about a week.”

“Wow, that’s impressive,” Patrick remarked. “So you must know your bass guitars.”

“You could say that.”

“How many do you have at home?”

Patrick wasn’t quite sure where he was going with this, but it seemed impertinent to continue this line of questioning. Patrick was a music man – he might have worked in a record store, but he knew his instruments from his own band days – and he figured that there was going to be something in this story that didn’t fit. He needed to push questions that hadn’t been asked, questions that Mikey had not intended to hear, so that the answer would be genuine and not rehearsed like everything else he had shared.

“About six,” the bassist confirmed. “But there are two I play more than the rest.”

“Which were you playing on the day your brother was murdered?” Patrick asked. “I’m sure you wouldn’t forget that, considering how traumatizing an event it must have been. I’ll bet you didn’t even put the bass guitar away.”

“No, I didn’t. And I was playing a Fender — beautiful black thing with a Laurel fingerboard. CS-60SCE.”

Now, that might have been enough for anyone else. Hell, even some serious bassists would not know every model number, but that was Patrick’s thing. He was good at memorizing information and had an almost eidetic memory, so he had seen the model number CS-60SCE before and _knew_ that Mikey Way could not have _possibly_ been playing that instrument when Gerard was murdered, because it would not have masked the sound of the gunshot.

“CS-60SCE. Nice. This was the instrument you were playing when Mr. Iero shot your brother, correct?”

Mikey nodded. “Yes. If you check the house, it’s probably still sitting in the basement where I left it on the couch after playing.”

God, this was going to be so anticlimactic.

It was _nothing_ like the movies.

“So, Mr. Way, let me confirm again. You were playing a Fender CS-60SCE model bass guitar on the day your brother was shot, correct?” Patrick asked again.

“Objection!” McCracken exclaimed from the prosecution table. “Why is this relevant?” The judge looked at Patrick, who assured her that he did indeed have a point. She insisted that he made it soon, so Patrick continued further.

“Mr. Way, were you aware that a CS-60SCE bass guitar is an acoustic guitar?”

“Of course,” Mikey said.

“Then I have a hard time believing that you hadn’t heard the gunshot,” Patrick told him. “Seeing as an acoustic guitar is one of the quietest instruments and therefore would not have been making enough noise to drown out the sound of a _literal gun_.”

“I mean—”

“If you _had_ indeed been playing a CS-60SCE as you told us, then you would have heard the shot Mr. Iero made when he murdered your brother,” Patrick continued. “And if you _had_ heard the shot and ran immediately to see what had happened, as you have told us, then Mr. Iero would not have had time to stash the gun and make it back to the body. It would have been impossible for you to find the man standing over your brother’s body without it.”

“Well, I-I—”

Patrick barrelled on. “You would have had to find Frank Iero with a gun in his hand to make your story plausible! But _you_ —” and this could be the make or break moment of this entire trial but Patrick felt confident that he was right, “—on the other hand. _You_ had time to hide the gun, didn’t you, Mikey?”

“I didn’t mean to shoot him!” the bassist cried, losing his smug composure and pointing toward his brother-in-law. “I thought it was _you_ coming through the door!”

The whole courtroom fell to shocked silence.

“Oh my god,” Patrick said.

“Oh my god.”

“Oh my _god_.”

Everyone shared the same sentiment, and Mikey Way’s eyes were wide as he finally realized to what he had admitted. Patrick could barely move, he couldn’t believe this was happening. Still holding the file in his hand, he turned toward the defense where Pete looked just as equally shocked but also _proud_. He was looking right at Patrick, and had court not been in session, Patrick was almost certain that the man would leap forward and sweep him up into his arms. Or, well, Patrick could _hope_ that he would, anyway.

“Bailiff, take the witness into custody,” the judge directed, “where he will be charged for the murder of Gerard Way. In the matter of the state versus Frank Iero, you,” she continued, looking right at the tattooed musician, “are free to go.”

The room erupted in a myriad of emotions. The silence was broken. Cheers came from the defense, who had _won their case_. Cheers came from the audience, where Patrick’s friends were clamouring forward to congratulate him on his spectacular win. Anger was coming from the prosecution, where McCracken was yelling at his both his team and at Mikey Way in succession — from where Patrick was standing, it almost seemed as though McCracken had _known_ Mikey was guilty. They had probably rehearsed that whole fucking story together, but ultimately, that didn’t matter. Because they lost their case.

And Patrick…Patrick had _won_.

“Patrick!” Pete crashed into him at that moment, wrapping his arms around the shorter man and enveloped him in a tight hug. “Patrick, I’m _so proud_. You were _amazing_ up there, I just want, I want—”

And he kissed him. God, Patrick could _cry_ , this was the best moment of his _entire life_.

It took a moment before he remembered to kiss back.

The courtroom faded out around them, the only thing Patrick’s senses picking up was _Pete, Pete, Pete_. Even Ryan, who had been standing aside and watching the scene with no less than devastation on his face, had gone unnoticed to Patrick in that moment (it would be Brendon who informed Patrick later of the moment that he realized that Ryan would never truly be his). Pete’s mouth moved beneath his and Patrick was gasping, gripping onto the older man’s arms so that he would not be able to disappear in that moment, and absolutely _devoured him_ as though he had been starving for this.

And, well, he _had_.

It was Gabe who finally got his attention by clearing his throat. Pulling back from Pete, Patrick turned to his friends with the _most_ obviously kiss-swollen lips. “Aren’t you going to introduce us?” the taller man asked, gesturing toward the lawyer.

“Maybe later,” Patrick responded. “I believe the man has promised to serenade me first.”

“I should warn you,” Pete began, “I can’t sing.”

“Then don’t.”

“No?”

“No,” he confirmed for the absolute _Adonis_ that he still couldn’t believe wanted _him_ , of all people. “We’re a team now, you and I. You can play — I’ll sing.”

And while Patrick had certainly considered himself a musician first, he knew that he could sing. He realized that one long ago when he tried to record an album, before Ryan had talked him out of it. God, Ryan really had ruined his life, hadn’t he? There hadn’t been anyone worse for him than that pretentious asshole — pretentious in a different way than Patrick, of course.

However, he had to hand it to the man: had he not dumped Patrick to pursue his legal education, Patrick would never have followed him. Patrick would never have gotten the internship or met Frank Iero or sent _Mikey fuckin’ Way_ to jail.

Patrick wouldn’t have Pete.

And what an awful shame that would have been.

**Author's Note:**

> I can't believe I wrote this whole fucking thing. Like, holy _fuck_. Now I have to sleep for a million years (just kidding, I have to meet with my PhD thesis supervisors tomorrow afternoon, but at least I can sleep _in_ come morning).
> 
> Follow me on social media! I'm **padawanryan** on [Tumblr](https://padawanryan.tumblr.com/), [Twitter](https://twitter.com/PadawanRyan), and [Instagram](https://www.instagram.com/padawanryan/). ✌️


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